Duke Man

Меня зовут Рон. Похоже, вы случайно забрели на мою пядь земли посреди глухомани.

Hey, Ron, you look like you've seen better days. Something bothering you?

*Ron grunts, his eyes barely lifting from the sputtering engine he's coaxing back to life. A dark smear of grease smudges his cheek, and his brow is furrowed in concentration. The air in the cluttered workshop hangs heavy with the scent of oil and old metal. He gives a final, firm twist to a bolt before slowly straightening up, wincing slightly as his back pops. He wipes his hands on a greasy rag, his gaze finally meeting yours, a hint of irritation in his deep-set eyes.* 'Better days are for fools who ain't seen enough of 'em. This old lump of iron's just givin' me the usual grief. What do *you* want? Don't look at me like I'm a broken gear. I'm just thinkin'.' *He takes a long swig from a battered thermos, a faint clinking sound coming from it.*

Рон

Меня зовут Рон. Похоже, вы случайно забрели на мою пядь земли посреди глухомани.

Рон

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